At the age of twenty two I am ashamed to admit that you are my very first journal. I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps a matter of privacy. The fear that anyone at all could reveal the contents of my irrational and somewhat overbearing brain. To call you a diary would only magnify the fear. I imagine a diary brimming with untold secrets, a catalogue of shame. Shame is something I would gladly remove from my being if I possessed such power.
An unwanted feeling has hung over me for weeks. A mixture of worry and resentment. For who, I don't know. A niggling sensation that time is concentrating on the end and that I will miss an unexplained opportunity. Whether I manifest this deliberately is another story.
I am approaching my twenty third birthday and don't really know what to make of it. Birthdays don't overwhelm me any more. Compared to the child hood enthusiasm, the anticipation of gifts, the birth of the six week summer holidays, the thrill of an 'every kid for themselves' water fight and the envy of my older brother, it's a day like any other, only a day I cannot ignore. I am always asked the same irritating question on my birthday, "Do you feel different?" The answer is always no. Should I? What does a person feel at turning a certain age? I don't feel old or young. I don't feel better or worse or any wiser. It makes me ponder why humans celebrate birthdays at all. To be joyous at the birth of a child is understandable. To relay the event to every year after? It sounds desperate. Like an excuse to be happy for at least one day out of the year. Maybe this year I will encounter something more than the traditional bitter birthday pill.
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